


A Rose, A Warrior: Murtagh Fitzgibbons Fraser

by BrightneeBee



Series: Outlander: A Rose, A Warrior [1]
Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Loss of Virginity, Love Triangle, Major character death - Freeform, Minor Character Death, Period-Typical Sexism, Romantic Tension, Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:27:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24600799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrightneeBee/pseuds/BrightneeBee
Summary: One moment, she had been picking her own forget-me-not, and the next she saw Claire pressing her hands to the center stone, the tallest one, and disappear, as if falling through solid rock as a ghost. Elizabeth should have run for the car. She should have sped back to the village to tell the authorities, but she hadn’t thought of the consequences when following Claire’s actions. Elizabeth, with her pale blonde hair whipping about her face, pressed her own palms to the center stone, and felt the world fade to black, as the roar of the wind rang in her ears, and the ground fell out from under her feet.Nothing could accurately describe the experience of falling through time.
Relationships: Murtagh Fraser/Original Female Character
Series: Outlander: A Rose, A Warrior [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1778335
Comments: 57
Kudos: 118





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elywyngirlie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elywyngirlie/gifts).



> A/N: Please, read the tags. I will be adding onto them as the story progresses. I will also post a WARNING and chapter summary here for chapters that may be triggering. If it is going to be too much, please do not read and traumatize yourself. This fic could become very dark in places. 
> 
> Also, gifting this to Elywyngirlie for her love of Murtagh! (Murtagh deserves serious lovins' too) 
> 
> No regrets!

CHAPTER ONE

The war haunted Elizabeth. Day in and day out, months after the war had ended. 

Inverness had been a welcome escape, a return to a form of normalcy, if there were any such thing. Staying with her grandmother, Gran Murray, and working three shifts a week as a district nurse, the routine helped lift some of the crushing weight of what she had experienced, little by little. Still, moving on with midwifery and nursing had proven to not be enough. Even walks through the fields and tea with Reverend Wakefield had not been enough to break the hold that the war had on her. It was like being caught in a web, unable to pull free, trapped. She was paralyzed at times. 

It was Mrs. Graham who pulled Elizabeth free, step by step, and day by day. 

The druid circle that the older woman headed had been welcoming, understanding, and provided a young woman with a new perspective regarding life, death, and nature. The seasons, the flowers and herbs that grew wild, the path of the sun and the moon and the stars, the water that flower in rivers and streams, the way the wind blew this way and that - so many things rooted in ancient history, and Elizabeth was offered a safe environment to study it all, practice it. The chants, the dances, and the rituals all helped her to embrace life after so much death. 

Learning the uses of flowers, herbs, and weeds that grew in abundance in the surrounding moors and forests became a calming hobby for Elizabeth. It gave new purpose to the long walks she took along the outskirts of Inverness, so focused on searching for specific blooms and watching the stags and does prance about in the fields, weaving between the trees and chewing at grass. She would always arrive home with a basket full of plants, and a gentle smile on her lips that her Gran Murray claimed could cure the sorrows of any soul. 

The months passed through summer, and Samhain approached quickly. The women of the circle were all tittering about the offering to come, while Elizabeth worked with Mrs. Graham on how to move about, hold the lantern, flow with her partner, Mary MacIver. When the morning arrived, Elizabeth was fitted in the same druid shift - a thin white dress over a slip that belled at the sleeves and hung off one shoulder - adorned by a veil and floral crown atop her head of pale, summery hair. 

There was a crisp chill in the air, yet they were all so excited to ring in the dawn that none of the women felt the cold seep into their bones. They offered their voices and their bodies to the coming sunrise, dancing about the stones of Craigh na Duhn. Through the rustle of the grass, the ghostly singing in the early hours of the morning, Elizabeth could have sworn that she heard a buzzing that grew louder whenever she passed by the center stone. The sound of bees buzzing around a hive, or that was how she thought of it. 

Of course, it was of a little consequence to her, at that time. The sun rose, bathing them all in the suddenness of light and warmth, and then the women began drifting off to get on with their day, while Elizabeth stayed behind for a few solitary minutes. She stared at the stones, and enjoyed the sight of the natural Highlands; the rolling hills and sprawling moors seemed as large and endless as they had when she was just a wee girl. It had been so long since she had lived in Scotland, and it seemed as though nothing had changed, but far different from the droll, misty countryside of England. 

Nothing could compare to being home, and that had always been Scotland. In the Highlands, the air was fresh and earthy outside villages and cities, and nothing was rushed. Everyone and everything moved at its own pace, and there was no loudness, no stress. It was quiet and simple. A far cry from being settled, Elizabeth mused, but as much as she remained a lost lamb, each day became a little less harsh, and living became less of a struggle. 

Sooner than she expected, Mary MacIver was calling out her name, and Elizabeth was required to pull herself away from the odd buzzing of the stones, as well as the chilly breeze playing with her hair. It was time to return to reality, and that meant joining Mary in the drive back to town. She was covering one of the other nurse’s shifts that day, and it wouldn’t do to be late. 

Elizabeth delivered one baby that day, in the late hours of the morning, and then went about tending to the few names on that afternoon’s roster. It wasn’t a very long shift that day, but it was a small bit of extra money in her pocket, and she was helping out one of the fellow nurses who had small children suffering from colds. By the middle of the afternoon, Elizabeth was relieved and spent her time walking the village. 

Out of her uniform, she donned her usual blue dress and wrapped herself against the wind with the tartan shawl that Gran Murray insisted Elizabeth keep to ward off chills. Family tartan. Murray tartan. It was made of thin, worn wool, but it was soft and warm, a comfort. 

Strolling aimlessly along the high street, passing shops and a bakery, Elizabeth wished she had an automobile to make the drive to the stones of Craigh na Duhn. There was a nagging in her mind, some tendril of curiosity or intuition telling her to go back and listen to the buzzing hum of energy, like thousands of bees swirling around her, but it was no use thinking on it any further. It would be ages before the next ritual at the stones, and by then she will have most likely forgotten all about the strangeness of the sacred place. 

There was a heavy wind blowing in from the heaths surrounding Inverness, smelling of coming winter and carrying the voices of people across the square. One voice in particular caught Elizabeth’s attention, as she had spent several years listening to it for instruction, while assisting in the amputation of limbs of soldiers, or digging bullets from flesh. The lilt of a proper Englishwoman of gentle birth and genuine kindness. 

“Lizzie?” the voice called out, growing clearer as the woman crossed the street from Mrs. Baird’s inn. “Elizabeth Grey? Is that you, truly?” 

The woman, so tall and lithe with smooth, pale skin and beautiful dark curls, as well as an elegance about her that always made the soldiers turn a head more than once, smiled at Elizabeth, waving. 

“Claire?” 

It should have been embarrassing to Elizabeth to be misty eyed as she skipped the small distance left between them and wrapped her mentor - her friend - in a fierce embrace. 

In all the bloodshed and death and hopelessness, Claire Randall was the one reminder of the way that did not seem to darken her day with all the terribleness they had both witnessed. No, Clair had been an immovable woman, a formidable force of nature in all the chaos; collected and confident, and so kind. Elizabeth had always cherished how such a gentle woman continued to be fierce and strong, but also so incredibly compassionate. 

How many nights had Claire sat with Elizabeth in silence, offering words of encouragement and comfort? The younger woman had only finished nursing and midwifery qualifications after England had joined the war, and had been recruited and sent to France as a field nurse. She then spent 3 years assisting Claire; following the woman around, taking orders, holding down men, and handing the Head Nurse instruments, as well as the doctor. Nothing had prepared Elizabeth for the nightmarish reality of war when she had applied for advanced nursing and midwifery training at the age of 15. There had been no warning, and suddenly newly graduated young women were being herded onto planes to be flown to France, or elsewhere. 

“I’m terribly sorry,” Elizabeth sniffled and laughed, wiping the tears away as the women released each other. “It’s just wonderful to see you, is all. You look well, Claire.” 

“So do you,” Claire replied, expression still so warm and friendly. “Inverness. I never thought I’d see you here after the war.” 

The younger woman nodded, looking back down the high street with a faint smile, “I decided to come home. Gran is the only family I have left, and it’s peaceful here. Quiet.” 

“Well, it suits you,” smiled Claire. “I was just popping out to Craigh na Duhn. I saw a blue flower there this morning, but I can’t place it. Would you care to join me?” 

Elizabeth was wide-eyed with shock, having been at the stones that morning herself, and wondering if Claire had been watching the druid ritual from the tall grass. Still, the young woman had been experiencing that nagging sensation to go back, and with the offer presenting itself, Elizabeth could not help but to accept. 

“It would be a pleasure, Claire. I’ve a love of the local flora, as well.” 

The drive was leaps and bounds quicker than walking, and the women were able to catch up on the way. Elizabeth learned that Claire’s appearance in Inverness was due to being on a second honeymoon with her husband, Frank. Husband and wife had only seen each other a total of ten days during the war, and after the last troops and medical personnel had arrived home, there was a slight distance between the couple. The time in the Scottish Highlands was to reconnect after everything they had experienced during the war, the changes wrought on them by hardships and violence. They had become different people, and they were finding their way back to each other. Elizabeth understood, because Inverness had become her sanctuary following the war, as well. She was finding her footing in the post war world, and she wasn’t the chipper young girl of her youth, despite the loss of her parents when she was 15 years old. She was changed, and would forever be changed. 

It was refreshing to confide in another her struggles, someone who understood. Most of the men of Inverness and the surrounding area hadn’t returned alive, while the rest had chosen to remain in England, or move to the Lowlands, or board ships to the Americas. Claire was a comfort, again and again, understanding the shift between who they both were before the war, and who they had become upon their return home. Both women were haunted by the people they hadn’t been able to save. 

They talked of Claire’s newfound hobby of botany, and Elizabeth’s interest in herbalism, both with the same intention of finding uses of natural ingredients to combat ailments and disease. It was the first intellectually stimulating conversation Elizabeth had experienced since arriving on Gran Murray’s doorstep with nothing but a single suitcase. 

The afternoon took a turn once they arrived at the stones, though. It had been a short trek up the hill to the stones of Craigh na Duhn, and Claire had been happy to learn that she had been correct in her assumption that the little blue flowers she’d spotted that morning were, in fact, forget-me-nots. Regrettably, it all changed when the roar of something echoed through the circle, and Elizabeth’s ears thrummed with the deafening sound of bees buzzing angrily. 

One moment, she had been picking her own forget-me-not, and the next she saw Claire pressing her hands to the center stone, the tallest one, and disappear, as if falling through solid rock as a ghost. Elizabeth should have run for the car. She should have sped back to the village to tell the authorities, but she hadn’t thought of the consequences when following Claire’s actions. Elizabeth, with her pale blonde hair whipping about her face, pressed her own palms to the center stone, and felt the world fade to black, as the roar of the wind rang in her ears, and the ground fell out from under her feet. 

Nothing could accurately describe the experience of falling through time.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon waking, Claire and Elizabeth find they are far from the world they know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Description of violence

CHAPTER TWO

  
Elizabeth woke with a gasp. 

A long, drawn out inhale of breath, and a sharp pain in her lungs as if she had landed hard on her back, and all the air had been thrust out of her chest. Claire was hovering over her, shaking her harshly, until the younger woman finally woke with a startle, and in a rush, shot up from the ground with a groan. Each breath was a shuddering struggle, but she was alive, breathing, and Claire was there, much the same and no worse for wear. It must have all been a dream, or her eyes playing tricks on her. The older women in the village had always said strange things happen at Craigh na Duhn. Perhaps hallucinations were one of those odd occurrences? 

“Did you hear it, too?” asked Claire, obviously shaken. “Did you feel it? The world disappearing?”

“What?” rasped Elizabeth, pulling her tartan shawl tight around her shoulders. “You know, it wasn’t this cold when we first arrived this afternoon.” 

Claire was already up and walking, leaving her own shawl on the grass and stumbling down the hill to the car. Elizabeth was quick to grab the forgotten tartan and follow behind, stopping halfway down the steepening hill when there was no car to be found. The dirt road was gone, as well. Everything was covered by dying autumn grass and weeds. In fact, the trees looked younger, if that were a possible thing for a bunch of ancient trees to do. And something else, in the air. 

“Do you smell that?” asked Elizabeth, coughing at the prickling sensation in her lungs as she joined Claire near where the car used to be. “The air… Doesn’t smell like it did… Cleaner? Less tainted? What is that?” 

“What happened?” mumbled Claire, turning on the spot to look in all directions, confounded by the disappearance of her husband’s automobile. “What…” 

Elizabeth placed a small, gentle hand on the taller woman’s arm, offering the shawl she had left behind in all the confusion, nodding in a specific direction, “I’m not quite sure, Claire, but let’s walk back. We can file a report with the authorities in the village.” 

They walked in silence across the plain to the trees, still shaken from what had happened, while looking for the road back to Inverness. 

Traipsing through the woods, Elizabeth guided Claire around and over fallen trees and the thick underbrush, until a gunshot stopped them both in their tracks. Startled yet again, they both watched as men charged through the trees in red coats, carrying old rifles that looked new, as if they had stumbled upon the set of a cinema company. Of course, no film would employ live lead bullets in their prop weapons, which Claire and Elizabeth soon discovered as several rifles were aimed at them and fired. Most of the bullets landed in the ground a meter ahead of the women, but a few of the bullets hit their intended marks. One of the bullets grazed Claire’s leg, a shallow cut and very little blood. Another collided in a sapling, splintering the trunk, while two others bit into Elizabeth’s flesh. Blood blossomed through the left sleeve of her pale blue dress, and trickled down her right leg from her thigh. Sharing shocked expressions, Claire and Elizabeth both began to run through the woods, away from the men charging along the ridge above them. 

Claire fell first, foot catching on the root of a tree, and she tumbled down a steep slope, a blur of autumn leaves clinging to an expensive white dress. Elizabeth simply stumbled, following Claire’s own tumble with a shriek. The younger woman almost landed on her companion at the base of the slope, both women clutching their wounds, and looking up at the top of the incline as kilted Scotsmen ran along, one after the other, followed by the men in red coats. One of the Scots fired off a round, and took off again, and then more shouting could be heard. Claire wasn’t the only one confused and terrified, while pulling Elizabeth’s good arm around the taller woman’s waist in an effort to keep them both upright. 

Another gunshot, and it was from a red coat, again, aiming his rifle down the slope directly at them. 

Elizabeth was the one to pull Claire down to the ground, even as the bullet missed by a meter or more up hill. There was no time to look back for confirmation. Both women remained low to the ground as they fled the scene, too afraid of being caught or killed to stay. Elizabeth followed behind Claire, through thorny thickets and puddles of mud. The low hanging branches of the trees caught at their hair, depositing browning leaves and brittle twigs in Claire’s short, dark curls, and Elizabeth’s long, messy, blonde braid. The blood flowed down the younger woman’s arm, as well as her thigh, and it was growing cold and sticky, while every flex of her willowy frame pulled at the rough edges of her wounds with sharp twinges of pain, but there would be no stopping. If either woman stopped, they would lose sight of each other. Or, if Elizabeth stopped, she would lose sight of Claire, and they couldn’t be separated in the woods, for more reasons than simply becoming lost. 

The sound of a rushing stream ahead caught Elizabeth’s attention, and she was flooded with relief, but never noticed that Claire had slowed to a halt. 

“Frank?” called Claire, as Elizabeth stumbled through the last of the leaves and underbrush, falling to her knees as she tried to catch her breath. “What the devil are you doing?” 

There was a man kneeling by the stream, wearing a red coat. His hair was long, brown, and pulled back from his face, tied at the base of his neck. By the way Claire was looking at him, it would be safe to assume the man struck her as familiar, unless the woman was suffering a moment of trickery being played on her by the woods and her wound. Elizabeth highly doubted that, but through the haze of her own pain, the ache in her chest from running, and the tears in her eyes, the man did seem to hold a likeness to Frank Randall. Claire had shown Elizabeth a photograph of her husband during the war. It had to be some strange, vivid dream. 

“I am Johnathan Randall, Esquire. Captain of His Majesty’s Eighth Dragoons,” was all Elizabeth heard through the pounding of blood in her ears and her own strangled wheezing as she tried to get to her feet again. “At your service.” 

It all happened in a blur as Elizabeth finally regained her footing, leaning against what could have been a sapling, but she couldn’t be entirely certain. Claire was a streak of white running back through the woods, and the man, Captain Randall, a red blur behind her, while Elizabeth came to terms with the lack of air in her lungs, and the darkness encroaching her vision. There was a scream from somewhere, and she knew it was Claire, but taking one small step forward seemed to send the trees tilting at an angle. Elizabeth felt the world spin out of her grasp, and suddenly she was staring up at the canopy, as a dirty, bearded face peered down at her curiously. 

Both tartan shawls still clutched in her hand, the man - a Highlander by the look of him, she vaguely thought - pulled them free from her grip and wrapped her in them tightly. Elizabeth hardly remembered his face as he lifted her in his arms, carrying her away. She didn’t register the sounds of boots splashing up stream, or feel the subtle shift in the man’s arms here and there. She passed out, wheezing, and clutching her arm, the faint brush of a beard tickling her forehead, and the horrible smell of a man who hadn’t bathed in quite a while burned into her sinuses. 

The petite blonde woke for the second time that day to the sudden sound of a door being forced open, and then slammed shut. She woke much the same as before, with a long, agonizing, rasping gasp, but that time the pain in her chest was eclipsed by the pain shooting through her entire body. Arm and thigh. Left and right. There were no trees when she opened her eyes, nor mystical ruins from a time long forgotten, and stones that made the world fall away. When she cracked open her eyes, there was hardly any light, and the smell in the air was horrible, conflicting. It seemed to cling to her own skin, and then she saw all the blurry outlines of all the men, and Claire being pushed further into the room, near the fire. 

There were two fires, actually. One burning in a brazier, and one in the hearth, each at opposite ends of the room. A red-haired man sat near the flames by the hearth, clutching his arm, head tilted slightly to listen in to the low hum of voices. Half dazed, and struggling for a decent breath, Elizabeth whimpered, catching only a few bits and pieces of Gaelic. She had been taught from a young age by Gran Murray, before her parents took her with them to England. Her father’s sister, Aunt Edith, had taught Elizabeth to speak French, and some Celtic, and told the young girl stories of the Grey bloodline, and how they were related to the Elizabeth of York, and her mother, Elizabeth Woodville, and on and on, back through time, to Melusina, a water spirit of a sacred spring in France. Though there were some who said Melusina had been a water goddess, but certain details were lost through the ages. She had been an ethereal beauty, Aunt Edith had told Elizabeth as a girl on the cusp of womanhood. That was why the females were born with pale blonde hair and dark blue eyes, and could hear Melusina singing from the rivers and streams and lakes and ponds when family or loved ones were soon to die. Aunt Edith taught Elizabeth all sorts of the Woodville-Grey lineage, before passing from consumption after a harsh winter and grim spring. 

Yet, Gaelic was also Elizabeth’s heritage, the language of her homeland, where she had been born and raised up to the age of eight on Gran Murray’s little farm. Of course, at that moment, she could hardly focus enough to piece the full picture of the conversation together. 

She did understand one of the men near Claire identifying her as an Outlander, an English girl, and another man replying, “Did you steal her from her bed, lad?” Or something of the sort. 

Claire was silent, but tense, still. She was drawn into herself, wary, and her gaze turned to the pitiful state of Elizabeth, who was hanging off the rickety table she had been left on. It all seemed a horrible dream, as if they had both fallen through a void and landed in an alternate form of reality, since she couldn’t remember foul-smelling kilted men such as these gracing the village of Inverness in the few months Elizabeth had been living there since the end of the war. Yet, it all seemed too real, while rational thought screamed that it couldn’t possibly be true. The smells, the sounds, the vivid sensation of touch, as well as the pain shooting through her arm and leg proved to be real enough to consider outlandish possibilities. 

An older man, bald, with a short gray beard, stood from a seat near the hearth fire, and addressed Claire, a firm grasp on the curly haired woman’s thin arm, “Let’s have a look at ye then, lass.” 

He guided her closer to the second fire, the light flickering up against Claire’s pale face, and Elizabeth could see the fortitude of her friend returning, as the woman finally spoke, “I trust you’re able to see me, now?” 

“What’s your name?” asked the older man, the one that seemed to be the leader. 

Claire replied hesitantly, “Claire. Claire Beauchamp.” 

“And that one? What’s her name?” asked the man, head jerking in Elizabeth’s direction. 

The small blonde wheezed, answering for herself, “Elizabeth… Woodville Grey.” 

The older man looked at Elizabeth, mulling over her name, “Elizabeth… Grey.” He seemed suspicious of the name, for some reason, and then return his attention to Claire, “And Claire Beauchamp.” 

“That’s right,” said Claire, and then she found more of that fierce courage that Elizabeth remembered admiring for years, but now wasn’t so sure it was the right tone to take with a room full of strange men. “And just what the hell do you think you’re -” 

“You said you found her?” asked the leader, ignoring Claire as if she were nothing more than a child.

The man who had entered with Claire answered, “Aye. She was havin’ words with a certain Captain of Dragoons, with whom we are acquainted. There seemed to be some question as to whether the lady was or was not a’whore.” 

Elizabeth wasn’t entirely certain if it was the delirium from blood loss, or if the realization that they may have actually ended up in the past was becoming more solid in her mind, but the words left her lips before she could stop them, a harsh, biting wheeze as she shoved off the table to unsteady feet, “My lady is no whore.” 

“We could put her to the test,” said one of the men nearby, which earned him a few chuckles from the others, but the older man gave him a sharp, withering glare, and a curt response. 

“I don’t hold with rape.” 

Silence strangled the remnants of laughter from the men crowded in the little room, but there was no chance to respond, as the older man, the leader, spoke again, “And we don’t have time for it, anyway.” 

“Dougal, I’ve no idea what she might be or who,” said Claire’s captor, “but I’ll stake my best shirt she’s no’ a whore. Neither the other one.”

“We’ll puzzle it out later,” was the only reply the older man, Dougal, gave as he turned back to the injured man on the other side of the little cottage room. 

Claire was released, and immediately caught Elizabeth in a stumble, guiding her back to the table, “Let me look, Lizzie. You’ve lost a lot of blood. How are you even standing on that leg?” 

The men were crowding around the injured Highlander, while Claire was ripping the long sleeve of Elizabeth’s dress off, poking and prodding at what they initially thought was a simple deep cut, of a sort, but proved to be a rather large, bloody hole in her arm. It missed the bone, thank the Lord, and all His good graces, but it meant Elizabeth would need it cleaned, with the bullet dug out and hole sewn shut, with a tight bandage. The same for the bullet lodged in the slender muscle of her right thigh. Elizabeth recognized the injured Highlander being acknowledged as Jamie, and Claire must have been keeping track of the conversation, as well, because she was screaming at the men to stop before they broke the man’s arm. 

While Claire worked on the man with the red hair, Elizabeth pressed the other woman’s tartan shawl to the bullet hole in her thigh, grateful the blood was beginning to clot, but worried the bullet was lead, still inside of her, and possibly, slowly poisoning her. Then, suddenly, everything was a blur of motion, and a man - the man who seemed familiar from the forest - reached out to lift Elizabeth up into his arms. She hesitated on instinct, a moment she’d rather not think about ever again, for as long as she lived, flashing through her mind, before she relaxed and allow the man to actually gather her up and carry her out. 

He was a man with thick arms, and a bit of a belly, but his eyes held a glimmer of kindness from what she could tell, and he refrained from any roughness as he carried her to the horses. He set her on the horse as if she weighed nothing, and settled behind her with practiced ease. Elizabeth was pulled backwards until her back was flush against his chest, so she wasn’t pressed against the front of the saddle, and he even wrapped her tartan Murray shawl around her shoulders without attempting any sort of inappropriate touch, of any kind. And when the group set off into the night, heavy rain drowning them all, Elizabeth struck up the courage to ask the man’s name, her voice foreign to her in that moment, so timid and quivering with cold. 

“Rupert,” was all he said. 

When Elizabeth asked for a small knife to dig out the bullet from her thigh, Rupert gave her a look, as if he expected her to stab him and take off with his horse, but when she hiked up the skirt of her dress to show him the bloody hole on the outside of her thigh, still trickling crimson, he agreed, though rather reluctantly. He slipped his arms underneath her own, providing her with his belly and chest to lean back against as she used the tip of the filthy knife to dig into her flesh and pick at the little lead ball. Biting her lip between her teeth, Elizabeth managed to manipulate the bullet close enough to the surface, and wipe the blood off of the blade on her tartan before handing it back to Rupert. He gave her a leather skin of whiskey without hesitation, glancing between what she was doing to her thigh, and upwards ahead to push low branches out of the way. 

Pulling the bullet out with her fingernails, Elizabeth gulped down a few mouthfuls of whiskey, before pouring a small amount into the wound. Rupert was kind enough, she reckoned. He didn’t touch her inappropriately, and he didn’t talk very much, but he did help her, and that meant a great deal. Even as she fumbled to rip a strip of her skirt off as a makeshift bandage, he was respectful. He simply handed her the reins to the horse, and cut off a strip at the hem, letting her wrap it around her thigh, as it would have been far too intimate for him to do for her. The bandage was snug enough to keep pressure on the wound, but not tight enough to cut off circulation to the rest of her leg. When she was done, he fixed both of the tartan shawls to cover her completely, keep her warm, and then pulled his own up and around them both to protect against the rain. It was as chivalrous as could be expected, considering the more Elizabeth saw, and the more she rationalized the situation, the more she was starting to believe that Claire and she had truly fallen through the stones and ended up in the past. 

Unfortunately, neither of them had any idea when they had arrived. 

But, yes. Rupert seemed kind enough, in her opinion. Actions always did speak louder than words. 

The Highlander was firm, despite his build and belly, and he radiated warmth that stayed inside the tartans, sheltering them both from the rain and the cold of the night. Elizabeth couldn’t see Claire in the dark, but she assumed they were both safe enough for the time being. There was nothing Elizabeth could really do, and the whiskey she had drank went straight to her head. Combined with the heat from Rupert, and despite his smell, she drifted off to sleep rather quickly, vaguely recognizing the way the man’s beard tickled her forehead in a very familiar way. 


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

  
  


It couldn’t have been more than one night that Elizabeth spent drifting in and out of sleep, head resting back against Rupert’s chest, and cocooned in tartans with the man’s body heat. 

Yet, there came a point when a ruckus rose up ahead, which pulled her out of the haze she had been in for most of the journey to wherever. It wasn’t until Rupert gave her unharmed shoulder a gentle shake that she woke, eyes flinching at the daylight. When he told her to brace herself, Elizabeth held tightly onto her tartan shawls and tensed, eyes clenched shut, and half-sliding, half-falling to the forest floor, while horses charged forward all around her. 

Claire pulled Elizabeth to her feet, making a comment about her ashen complexion, but nothing more. The dark-haired woman simply pulled Elizabeth along in an attempt to escape back to the stones of Craigh na Duhn. 

“No,” rasped Elizabeth, pulling free of Claire’s grip only to fall into a puddle of mud for her trouble. “Bloody hell!” 

“Elizabeth, come on! We need to get back!” urged Claire, but the blonde woman refused. She was too tired, too hungry, and in too much pain to endure another sprint through the woods. “Lizzie, come with me!” 

Elizabeth shook her head, huddling in the mud up against the trunk of a fallen tree, rasping and desperate for a drink of frigid water to soothe the searing heat in her throat, “I can’t, Claire. We’re too far… I won’t make it.” 

“I’ll carry you if that’s what it will take,” hissed Claire, dragging the petite woman up to her feet, and bracing her against the taller frame. “Now move your bloody feet.” 

They didn’t make it very far while sharing their theories of what had happened; where they were and when they were, and how to get back to their own time. All of their theories revolved around the stones, and that was their plan; return to the stones, and go home. Of course, due to the face that neither of them knew the landscape of where they were, nor how to get back to Craigh na Duhn, it was easy enough for the red-haired Highlander - Jamie - to find them. Caught and prevented from the escape attempt, Claire was talked into enduring more time with the Scots in the hope of procuring transport back to Inverness at some point. The woman was focused on returning to Frank, and Elizabeth understood her desire to go home to her husband, and her life. 

Elizabeth, on the other hand, was experiencing a heavy burden of uncertainty. She missed her grandmother, and the routine of her day to day life and the long walks through the moors before twilight, but there hadn’t been much to truly call it a life. She was confused as to where or when or how she would find her footing, find something to look forward to, no matter what time she lived in. 

Still, those sorts of thoughts were neither here nor there. 

Up the stream, Rupert took Elizabeth in hand but helped her kneel by the flowing water to wash her hands and bring a few handfuls to her cracked lips to soothe the burn in her throat. She leaned heavily against him, exhausted, and went along like a biddable lass. She was rewarded with another dose of whiskey, and her own leather skin of cold water, and the ability to sleep in the warmth that Rupert provided, wrapped in tartans and resting back against his chest, once more. 

There was another scuffle, or some sort of emergency, during the night when Jamie fell from his horse. Rupert remained seated, Elizabeth tucked against him with a fever-sweat drenching her from head to toe. There was a throbbing in her left arm, and in her right thigh, bundled in a sort of tightness, and she knew her wounds were infected, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. If they ever stopped, a blade would need boiling, the wounds drained and the necrotizing flesh cut out before either hole could be sewn shut. Or cauterization. The pain would be immense, but it would be far better than blood poisoning and death. 

Finding it difficult to pay close attention to much of anything, the shivering, wheezing mess that she was, Elizabeth did register when Claire began cursing vulgarities while tending to Jamie. Apparently, after Claire finished fixing Jamie up, there wasn’t much continuing on, and Elizabeth was mumbling nonsense with a death rattle that had Rupert raising his voice in worry. It was the most he’d spoken since she had met him, and she wished she had her wits about her to remember what he was saying. 

The world tilted again when Elizabeth was being helped off the horse, only to collapse and vomit in the mud. She was shivering against the cold night air, and the misting rain falling through the forest canopy. Claire was at her side in seconds, and then there was cutting cold, and more pain. So much pain. Strong hands were holding her down, on her side, as wave after wave of pain caused her to jerk, convulse, empty her stomach; bile and nothing else mixing with mud and damp, decaying leaves. 

“Come on, lass,” came a low, masculine whisper in her ear, waking Elizabeth from a dead sleep. “Welcome to Castle Leoch.” 

She discovered that her arm had been strapped securely against her side, and she was wrapped like a child in tartans, again. She couldn’t tell what was her dress and what was mud, as it was caked on her skin, her clothes, and even in the long, mussed braid draped over her shoulder. So much mud mixed in her hair, it looked brunette. She couldn’t find a single pale blonde hair, even in the stray locks that had been tugged out during the harrowing journey. Especially not through all the muck and twigs and leaves. 

Perhaps a bath wouldn’t be too much trouble for Castle Leoch?

Looking ahead, instead of down, Elizabeth watched lazily as the castle grew larger, closer, as they crossed the distance. 

It did not take long, and the weary group passed through the gates into a muddy courtyard. So many voices, too much noise that Elizabeth struggled to keep track of what was happening around her. It was all out of place, not of her time, but of a time long passed. She simply clung to Rupert, standing in the mud, blinking and looking and swaying to and fro. 

A short, rotund woman by the name of Mrs. Fitzgibbons appeared, very loud, but also very welcoming to the men. The Scotsmen were treated to sly comments wrapped in good natured humor, as well as a hug, like one a mother would give her grown children. Rupert received his embrace, and then Elizabeth was swept up into his arms once more, a strange expression on the older woman’s face as she took in the state the young woman was in, up and down, or back and forth, as if inspecting the petite blonde of some foul trade, until Claire and Jamie caught up to them. There were explanations provided about the lack of dress, and that Claire and Elizabeth had been brought along on Dougal’s orders - most likely the older man with the bald head. Mrs. Fitzgibbons nodded, from what Elizabeth could tell from her position, being held like a bride before the threshold of a door, while her face was pressed against the scratchy wool of whatever Rupert was wearing, and with the faint, steady thump of heart beating against her ear, as well as the familiar brush of his beard against the top of her head. 

Claire, of course, dug her feet in before anyone could take a step towards the castle, despite the agony Elizabeth was in and her desperate desire to sit by a fire. Something was said about how Elizabeth and Jamie had both been shot, and they both required treatment, and that Claire knew how. Mrs. Fitzgibbons asked if Claire was a Beaton, and that was something Elizabeth could answer, because she knew about the Beatons, having heard Gran Murray talk about them as a child. 

“Healer,” she mumbled against Rupert’s chest. “M’lady...a healer.” 

Claire agreed, “She is, as well. My apprentice.”

Finally, Mrs. Fitzgibbons showed them all inside to a quiet room with a roaring fire, away from the bustle of the kitchens, and brought Claire everything she could possibly need to tend to the injured. Elizabeth continued to cling to Rupert, delirious, but she felt safe enough at that moment to dread when he would leave. His arms were strong, and he held her with ease. He never faltered as he carried her, and made certain that she wouldn’t fall. He was the one to hold her down on an empty table, wounded arm and thigh exposed, after shoving a bit of leather between her teeth. There was no other remedy for Elizabeth’s ailments, and Claire had to boil a blade to lance the infections, drain them, clean them, and then cauterize them. Elizabeth screamed, straining against Rupert’s hands, as the red hot poker was pressed against the bullet wounds, one after the other. She screamed herself hoarse, throat raw, and when it was over she was given a bitter tea to drink. It was scalding hot, but Rupert propped Elizabeth against him as Mrs. Fitzgibbons coaxed her to drink the tea. It tasted like willow bark, but the young woman thanked the older Scotswoman, all the same. Then came the smear of honey over the burns, and clean strips of cloth wrapped around her limbs as bandages. 

Mrs. Fitzgibbons was a very warm, very kind woman, reminiscent of a beloved mother, of which Elizabeth apparently blurted out, in slurred Gaelic weaved through a weary, whimpering sort of laugh. But the older woman caught enough to be charmed, and said, “You call me Mrs. Fitz, sweet lass.” 

Once Elizabeth was tended and bandaged, she was carried up several flights of stairs and settled into a large, lumpy bed. The loss of something she couldn’t identify brought her out of the clouds, sitting up like a snake preparing to strike. She grabbed hold of Rupert’s large, rough hand without thinking. It shocked her a bit, as the last time she held a man’s hand was as he lay dying, and no one deserved to die alone, especially a young man crying out for his mother. But she had never held a man’s hand, or had her hand held by a man, or even a boy. She had been young, and then she’d been through a war, but she found a sense of calm as Rupert’s fingers gently squeezed her own. 

Eyes fluttering, Elizabeth felt her cheeks burn as she whispered timidly, “Thank you.” 

He squeezed her fingers again, and laid her hand down on the bed with a curt nod in response, but there was something in the way he looked at her, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, despite that fact that he couldn’t be older than 30 years, if that. He looked as if it was a loss to him, as well, the lack of her touch. It was odd, and Elizabeth was unsure how, or why, but it was certainly strange. Instead of mulling over the thought of it, she pulled the wool blankets up to her chin, and slid down against the pillow, silently watching as Rupert left without a word. 

Then she slept, drifting in and out of consciousness, with no idea who was tending to her, or how long she’d been bedridden. 


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, I hope this chapter makes up for it.

**CHAPTER FOUR**

Elizabeth was allowed one full day and night of rest, it so happened, before Mrs. Fitz burst through the door to wake her up for washing. The woman was boisterous, but gentle, kind, and warm. So were the pails she and several other maids brought up from the kitchens. The cold had stolen the searing heat after being boiled, but standing naked in what Elizabeth could only surmise as a washtub, the warm water was welcome. Even as Mrs. Fitz scrubbed vigorously at the dried filth dried upon the young woman’s flesh. 

It was the first time Elizabeth had been clear-headed enough to notice what Mrs. Fitz was wearing. She remembered learning of the Rising of ‘45, and the re-enactment her small school had done in remembrance before her parents had moved to the English coast, after her father’s parents passed. She had been a lass of 7 years old, but she remembered all the same. The costumes had been made from materials of the modern age, but the look of the attire was almost similar. Instead of thin wool, polyester, and nylon, as well as other fabrics weaved and manufactured in the 20th century, it was thick wool and linen that Mrs. Fitz wor. The material and style was accurate for the mid-18th century, or so. 

Once Mrs. Fitz deemed Elizabeth properly clean, the young woman was dressed in a plain shift and sat before a dingy vanity, while the older woman combed out the long, knotted ends of pale hair before braiding it. The older woman even tied it off with a tartan ribbon bow. 

Then Elizabeth was sat by the fire to warm up, and eat a bowl of hot broth, and a bannock, before being ordered to drink every last drop of willow bark tea. Aunt Edith and Gran Murray had been the same in one regard; they both didn’t hold much stock in modern medicine. If Elizabeth ran a fever, she was always given willow bark tea with a spoonful of honey. Injury? Willow bark tea. Swollen joints? Willow bark tea. There were other remedies, but steeped willow bark would always come to mind when faced with a sniffle or a bloodied, mangled soldier in a trench. 

“Feels like home,” Elizabeth sighed with a rasp, her throat still sore from the journey, as well as the rawness of screaming herself hoarse as Claire cauterized her wounds. She looked up to see Mrs. Fitz staring at her with an odd expression, “I miss my family, is all.” 

“Aye, dear,” nodded Mrs. Fitz in understanding. “I’m sure you’ll be reunited with yer family, once more.” 

Elizabeth sniffled as a sudden wave of sadness crashed over her, and she furiously blinked away the tears welling up in her eyes, before she gently shook her head, “All my family is long dead. Mrs. Beauchamp is all I have left, I suppose. It’s that–You remind me of my mother, Mrs. Fitz. I loved my mother very much.” 

“You’re too sweet for this world, lass,” sighed the woman, helping Elizabeth to her feet with a warm, compassionate smile tinged with sadness. “Come along. Back to bed wit’ ye. I’ll bring some honey with supper. For ye voice, ye ken.” 

“Thank you,” whispered the blonde, letting the older woman tuck her in like a child and enjoying the sensation of being cared for, instead of being the one caring for everyone else. “You’re so kind, Mrs. Fitz. Truly.” 

Claire tended to her that evening, along with Mrs. Fitz, who had brought more broth, honey, clean cloth for dressing changes, and another cup of scalding willow bark tea. She left the two younger women alone once Elizabeth had drunk all of the tea, and had the chance to fuss over the lass for a short bit. It was then, after the door shut completely, that Claire divulged everything that had happened that day. Meeting the Laird of the castle, the MacKenzie, and weaving a story Claire had hoped was solid enough to get both women back to Inverness, as well as Claire’s mishap during supper in the great hall. 

In Elizabeth’s opinion, there were too many issues with the story Claire had told Colum MacKenzie, and too many holes. It would be easy enough to assume that Colum and the others most likely suspected both women of being English spies. It would take quite a bit of ingenuity to cinch a tight story, something believable while using what Claire had already provided as a foundation. Thankfully, the honey Mrs. Fitz brought had soothed some of the rawness in Elizabeth’s throat, and she found it easier to speak. There was simply too much information to process, but she did her best to explain to Claire that they were walking a very thin line in an incredibly bizarre situation. 

They fell through time and landed in 1743. Elizabeth had grown up learning about the Jacobites, and the Rising of ‘45, and the days when the Scottish declared for their Clan chieftains, not the English crown. There was Bonnie Prince Charlie, and the famine, and the subjugation of the Scottish following the defeat on Culloden Moor. She knew the folklore, the clans, the basics of the language, the politics, and titles and social expectations of the era. The British education on those subjects had been skewed, biased, but Elizabeth had been taught by her mother and Gran Murray the Scottish histories that deviated from the British curriculum. 

It was fairly late in the night by the time the women finished their private conversation, and Elizabeth managed to close any holes in Claire’s story to save them both the trouble later on. It would be better to make themselves useful to endear themselves to their hosts and mend some of the suspicion surrounding them, but not too useful that the MacKenzie would be loath to let them return to Inverness. 

In the back of her mind, Elizabeth dreaded returning home, but she couldn’t let Claire make the journey alone. Their stories were intertwined. Claire was Elizabeth’s Mistress, her mentor, and with no other family, where Claire went, Elizabeth would follow. 

“Did you tend your own wound, Claire?” asked Elizabeth, before her friend retired to bed for the night. “I could have sworn a bullet grazed your leg.” 

The curly-haired woman nodded, “I did. It wasn’t much more than a scratch, easy enough to clean and bandage.” 

“I’m glad of it,” replied Elizabeth, settling against the pillows to rest. “Sleep well, Claire.” 

“Pleasant dreams, Lizzie.” 

* * *

The days passed, and Elizabeth was woken by Mrs. Fitz in the same way as the previous morning. The fever had finally broken during the second night in the castle, but she was still required to remain in bed while her wounds healed. It wouldn’t do for the scarred flesh where the bullet holes had been cauterized to tear open, as it would create new breeding grounds for another round of infections. Keeping the burned flesh free of bacteria in 1743 would be difficult enough. In the realm of her unique situation, Elizabeth had suggested that Claire go on without her, until she was healed enough to make the journey. Or they would need to wait for the mysterious Mr. Petrie the following month. Claire refused to remain longer than necessary, nor leave Elizabeth behind, and that had been the end of the discussion. 

Therefore, the petite woman would need to rest as much as possible, and they would deal with any potential infections after traveling through the stones to their own time. Yet, Claire also refused to listen to reason regarding whether it would even be possible. 

The woman could be downright mulish. 

Confined to the bed, except for bodily functions, Elizabeth whittled away the day knitting, brushing the persistent knots from her long locks, and chatting with a few people who passed through. Mrs. Fitz was a treasure, and more than willing to provide a pair of knitting needles and wool for Elizabeth to occupy some of her time, while also making cowls and gloves and blankets for those who may need them. 

Then there was Rupert, who was most likely ordered to watch her for any doings that could be construed as suspicious, but sat in a chair by her bed and held balls of threaded wool as she knitted. In the afternoons, he held a mirror up for her as she combed, brushed and braided her hair, or fetched sewing supplies from Mrs. Fitz, and a basket of garments needing darned. Mostly, Elizabeth asked him questions, and he told her stories, while she would do the same for him. It stung, if only a little at the time, to skew the truth when answering him, or doctoring stories to fit into the era, but she grew to enjoy speaking with Rupert MacKenzie and looked forward to the times when he would appear in her doorway. 

Angus Mhor was also a visitor, or sentry, sent by Dougal to watch Elizabeth for any dubious behavior. She suspected Angus and Rupert drew straws or agreed to switch off every few hours because they complained about Claire quite a bit. Angus, especially. Though, despite his barnyard stench, Angus did tell bawdy stories and proved to be a wealth of information once he started chatting. 

A surprise twist came in the form of Murtagh Fitzgibbons Fraser, whom Elizabeth recognized by face, but not name. He was a companion, or mentor, to Jamie, but while the lad tended the colts in the stables, he ventured up to check in on the ‘young lass that took bullets better than Angus.’ 

Eventually, he would arrive to relieve Angus (of which Angus was more than happy about if it meant time to drink ale in the kitchens). Murtagh would spend the afternoons, or mornings, asking Elizabeth about her life, while assisting her in whatever handicraft she was occupying her hands with. A quiet, contemplative soul he was, but Elizabeth found that she quickly became intrigued by him. The man had a kind heart, as well as a sharp mind. He was witty, when he did speak, which was sparse. His presence was more peaceful, serene. There was no pressure to talk constantly, but he would ask after details, here and there. 

Usually, he would sit in contented silence, while Elizabeth hummed and went about the few activities she was allowed. She quite enjoyed the few odd hours that Murtagh stole, while Angus gleefully skipped out on his duties. 

In the evenings, Claire and Mrs. Fitz brought food, willow bark tea, and a bit of gossip. Then Mrs. Fitz would retire, leaving the two young women to have a private conversation, and then Elizabeth would settle back against the pillows and drift off the moment Claire shut the door behind her on the way out. It was a routine, of sorts, but there were times of the day that Elizabeth looked forward to the most. Mrs. Fitz in the mornings, and Rupert, and Murtagh, and then Claire’s updates in the evenings. 

* * *

The sun rose on the fourth day, and Elizabeth was treated to another of Mrs. Fitz’s scrubbings before Claire arrived to change the bandages upon the young woman’s arm and leg. Hot water, a drizzle of whiskey, a smear of honey, and clean cloths boiled in water with witch hazel, comfrey, and cherry bark. Her hair was then brushed and braided before Mrs. Fitz proceeded in dressing her in more than just a warm shift. There came a corset, and itchy wool stockings, more wool layers, hip pads, and a stomacher. Then the shoes that seemed thin and impractical, but Elizabeth wasn’t one to complain in the face of immense kindness or charity. Especially while Mrs. Fitz busied herself looping a bit of cloth about the lass as a makeshift sling for her arm. It was more than Elizabeth imagined she deserved. 

“There ye are, lass,” Mrs. Fitz proclaimed, opening the door for Rupert to enter the room. “Ye’re fit to be taken to himself.” 

Unable to walk without risking tearing open the cauterized wound at her thigh, Rupert gathered her in his arms like a bride on her wedding night and proceeded to carry her through the castle to the Laird’s chambers. The specific room was much the same as how Claire described it, filled with caged birds, books, and a desk covered in rolled parchments. Rupert lowered her down into a chair opposite the formidable figure of Colum MacKenzie, and then promptly left to stand guard outside the door. The little birds in the cages chirped and sang, fluttering their wings as the Laird and the time traveler regarded each other in silence. She felt a sense of doom under the steady, considering gaze of the MacKenzie, but she remained subtly timid, as well as immovable, once the interrogation commenced. 

Elizabeth had prepared for it, and answered questions about herself with what she knew to be the truth. 

Her name was Elizabeth Anne Margaret Woodville Grey. She had been born on a farm outside of Inverness, raised by her parents and grandparents until she was no more than 7 years old. Her father was of the Greys of Leicestershire, England, through the Woodvilles of Northamptonshire, while her mother had been born a Murray of Scotland. Her mother and father took her to be educated in Leicestershire, in her father’s small ancestral home, until their deaths (caused by fever) when she was only 15 years old. 

With no living relatives in England, she sold her family heirlooms and apprenticed to a local healer, before seeking further training with Mistress Claire Beauchamp of Oxfordshire. It was mostly the truth, and there was no avenue for Colum to take to verify it, but the sharpness in his eyes told Elizabeth that he knew enough English history to take notice of her ridiculously long name, as well as the Woodville-Grey surname.

She stuck to most of what Claire had already said to Colum, and corrected certain facts to be viewed in a far better light, explaining that Mistress Claire hadn’t been as sharp since the death of her husband, Frank, a teacher. 

“And are ye a widow, as well, Lady Grey?” A purposeful slip to trip her up, but the title was far too foreign to her ears. 

“Miss Grey,” Elizabeth politely corrected him, a small, graceful smile ghosting over her pink lips. “And no, I’ve never married. Mistress Claire hopes to find me a good husband once we have settled in Compiegne.” 

“France?” 

“Yes, my laird,” she answered, Scottish accent more of a lilt, the rough edges smoothed out through years of living in England, but still apparent. “Of course, my mother had hoped that I would marry a strong, brawny Highlander. _ Gabhaidh i fois ann an sìth.” _

Colum appeared surprised, but crossed himself the same as she did before speaking, “You speak Gaelic?” 

“Yes, my laird,” Elizabeth responded. 

“What clan did ye say?” 

“My grandfather was a Murray,” she crossed herself once more. “Bless his soul.” 

The questioning continued. Did she know any other languages? Elizabeth knew French, but not well. No, she was soon to turn 21 come the new year. 

Yes. No. 

As her mistress said… 

It took over an hour, but Colum seemed more agreeable to Elizabeth’s answers than he had with Claire’s misshapen relaying of events. Of course, much of the journey to Leoch was beyond Elizabeth’s ability to recall, as she had been unconscious for most of it. She had been delirious, but apparently Rupert had informed Colum days before after they had all arrived. 

Colum smirked knowingly when Elizabeth’s cheeks tinged pink at the mention of Rupert, as well as Murtagh, but he never said a word about it. She couldn’t explain why she blushed, and she didn’t know if she wanted to ascertain the answer. It felt like a betrayal to Claire, as if even contemplating staying in 1743 and starting a new life without the war hanging over her head would be irrational, and ill-guided - something that would hurt Claire’s chances at returning to the future. 

“Mistress Beauchamp mentioned ye’re a healer of bairns,” Colum mentioned, breaking a long, awkward silence that had settled over them. Not even the birds had chirped in their cages. “A midwife, I believe she called it?” 

_ “Bean-ghlùine _ , sire. Yes,” answered Elizabeth with a timid smile. “I learned a great deal from Mistress Kellum in Leicester. She never lost a bairn. She always said it was the greatest of God’s work, birthing bairns and caring for their mothers.” 

Colum nodded, a wistful look in his eyes, “Where there is life, there is joy.” 

“Yes, my laird,” Elizabeth agreed eagerly. “So much joy.” 

“We’re to have a gathering soon,” offered Colum, a touch of warmth at the corners of his eyes that she questioned, uncertain it was genuine or a guise. “There should be plenty of physicking to get on with, but I’d be grateful if ye’d tend to the womenfolk and children, as well. It would mean staying on after Mistress Beauchamp has departed.” 

A warm sense of pride filled her chest at the offer, but a cold fist clenched around it, like a vice in her chest, “May I discuss it with my mistress, sire?” 

“Aye, you may,” was his reply. “I shall wait for your answer, lass.” 

Elizabeth nodded, “Thank you, my laird. You’re most kind. I shan’t keep you waiting long, I swear.” 

With that said, Elizabeth was dismissed, and she curtsied before Rupert was called in to carry her back to her chambers... 


	5. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A day with Murtagh...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to @marinemax <3 (I should probably dedicate each chapter to all my readers and commenters, because without you reminding me, I'd forget to post new chapters.) Thank you, Marine for the review and the reminder. 
> 
> And thank everyone who follows this story, comments, and waits so patiently for me to update because I forget. I'm trying to do better. So much love to you all!!! <3

**CHAPTER FIVE**

The following day, Elizabeth was up before Mrs. Fitz arrived that morning. 

Murtagh had promised to take her to the gardens, so she could sit with the lambs and sheep in the fields beyond the castle walls. She couldn’t stand being bedridden a moment longer, confined to the four walls of her bedchamber. Still in a considerable amount of pain, Elizabeth was anxious to breathe fresh air, feel the Scottish wind on her face, and see life inside and out of the castle. She wanted to feel the grass underfoot, brush her fingers over wildflowers, and visit the horses in the stables near where the sheep grazed. 

“Ye’ve a gentle nature about ye, lass.” Murtagh remarked late that morning as he sat next to her in the long grass and wild heather. Sheep and their lambs had gathered around them for attention, and she had been happily petting their wee heads. “A tender spirit.”

“The women on my father’s side are all the same,” she replied, smiling at him as one of the little lambs butted its head against her hand for the soothing stroke of her thumb over its soft cheekbone. “Pale of hair, blue of eye, and a way with living things. All the women have a certain charm about them. Of course, it’s all myth. I find it fascinating, all the same.” 

Murtagh’s eyes glimmered in the gloomy midday sun, “What sorts of legends, lass?” 

“The bewitching kind, I suppose,” said Elizabeth, uncertain if she would be burned at the stake after telling him, or if he would assume she was simply barmy. With a delicate shrug, she explained, “It’s all hearsay, of course. Stories passed down from mother to daughter for centuries. My aunt told me, and her mother told her, and so on, all the way back a thousand years.” 

“A thousand years is a long time,” he replied, gaze focused on her bottom lip trapped between her teeth. Yet, his tone implied an open mind, or perhaps an interest in the tale. 

“Well, it’s said that very long ago, a noble knight lost his way in a dark forest,” she began, hesitant, but putting her trust in Murtagh that it would remain between them. “He heard the sound of water splashing, and found a sacred spring glittering in the moonlight. When he knelt to drink, he saw the faint glow of pale skin rising up from the depths.” 

Elizabeth wove the tale just as it had been told to her so many times before, in pretty words and with the air of a natural storyteller. 

“‘Twas a beautiful woman, ethereal. A water spirit,” she said. “Melusina, Goddess of the rivers and streams and springs, and guardian of the afterlife...” 

She went on to tell Murtagh of how the noble knight and the otherworldly being fell in love in an instant, when their eyes met and their hands touched. They were married the following day, it was said, though Melusina imposed one condition: That once every month, under the light of the moon, the noble knight must leave her to bathe alone, and he was not to disturb or gaze upon her under any circumstance. 

The noble knight, Siegfried of Luxembourg, Count of Ardennes, agreed without hesitation, for he was so besotted, and Melusina bore him beautiful daughters and wild sons, and they lived happily, and more merrily, than any in the world. Siegfried kept his promise, never once intruding upon his wife when she took her moon bath. 

The years passed, and Siegfried grew more and more curious about his wife, and the strange aura of mystery about her that sprouted in him the seed of discontent. Melusina’s beauty and youth never seemed to fade, despite their many years together. So, one day, when he could not bear the temptation of her secrets, Siegfried spied on his wife. There she was, Melusina in her true form, swimming beneath the waters of her bath with a long, scaled tail like that of a fish, or  _ maighdean-mhara. _

In that moment, Siefgried realized the heart-wrenching truth: though his wife and he truly loved each other, there would always be an eternal, unchangeable difference between them. Melusina was not only a woman of ethereal beauty, but an otherworldly Goddess, as well. And he was nothing more than a mortal man. 

In shock, Siegfried cried out, and Melusina knew her beloved husband had broken his promise. She disappeared into the night, leaving him to live alone with his daughters and sons as a heartbroken man, regretting his weakness to the end of his days. Legend said that their sons became the Dukes of Burgundy, and the daughters inherited their mother’s sight, as well as her knowledge of things unknown.

“Although Melusina never saw her husband again in his lifetime, she never ceased to miss him. She loved him.” Elizabeth continued, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, while Murtagh listened with rapt attention. “And at the hour of his death, Siegfried heard her singing for him, carried on the wind from the river that flowed by the castle. At that moment, he realized that it had all been quite trivial for a wife to be half-fish, and a husband mortal. For if there was enough love, a true and deep love, then nothing could come between them – not nature, not even death.

“When Siegfried passed, he was reunited with Melusina in her realm, and they were never parted again,” Elizabeth sniffed, nearing the end of the story. “Since then, whenever a child of Luxembourg lay dying, the family would hear Melusina singing. She calls us home to the afterlife, and warns if death is coming for us, and if the ones we love will live no more…” 

“A beautiful story,” said Murtagh after a long, contenting pause. “Is any of it true? Do ye hear her singing when death is near?” 

Elizabeth nodded, reluctantly, while gazing down at the happy face of an almost grown lamb curled up against her thigh, “I would swear I heard singing when my aunt lay dying, and then when my mother and father–You must think me and mine a family of witches.” 

“No,” he shook his head, the ghost of a smile hidden behind the clean and combed beard upon his weathered face. “I think ye a goddess, Elizabeth.” 

“Lizzie, please,” she offered, cheeks warming under his intense gaze. In an attempt to steer the conversation away from such attention, she asked, “You’ll keep this a secret between us, won’t you, Murtagh? I’ve never told a single soul before you.” 

“I shall take it to m’grave,” he swore, his hand over his heart in a sacred promise. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Angus found Elizabeth with Murtagh in the fields that afternoon. Looking exasperated, he’d apparently been tasked with locating her hours prior, and hadn’t thought to turn a head and look to the meadows. She was still surrounded by sheep, all curious and playful, content with handfuls of forbs and long grass that she had been feeding them, as well as the attention of her gentle, nimble fingers brushing over their cheeks and scratching behind their ears. There were even small, wild hares hopping about between sheep and over her legs, scurrying off as Angus stomped over to where Elizabeth and Murtagh were sitting. 

She was certain she made quite the sight, animals cuddling up to her, and the breeze lifting her hair in a dance about her face. 

“Lassie!” hollered Angus, stopping short a meter or so from where she sat. He looked very stern, and she wondered what could possibly have happened to cause him to look so angry. “Ye been out here in the fields all day? I’ve been lookin’ for ye!” 

“I’m terribly sorry, Angus,” Elizabeth said, before turning her gaze to Murtagh. “I believe it’s time to return to the castle. Would you be so kind as to carry me back to my chambers, Murtagh?” 

“Aye, Lizzie,” Murtagh chuckled, rising smoothly before helping her to her feet. “Lean on me for a bit and stretch yer legs. I’ve got ye.” 

“I am truly sorry, Angus,” she apologized to Angus once more. “Mistress Claire mentioned that Dougal had set Rupert and yourself to keep watch on us both. I never meant for you to be searching all over for me. Murtagh promised a day in the fresh air, and I do so enjoy animals. The sheep are sweet, don’t you think?” 

Angus looked red in the face, ready to explode, while Murtagh seemed to be very amused by Elizabeth’s sweet demeanor and light-hearted smile. She had made an effort to be kind to everyone she interacted with in 1743, especially with Colum and Dougal keeping a close eye on both Claire and herself. Yet, her first day outside of her bedchambers, and Elizabeth had caused Angus a right spot of trouble, apparently. Or he’d already encountered Claire, and was still fuming from that exchange. Either way, Elizabeth’s attitude was obviously not helping matters, of which Murtagh found very entertaining. 


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The time comes to leave, but one well-placed admission halts Claire's plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to @KITCAT12 <3 for kicking me in the arse and reminding me to get myself in gear for posting. <3 
> 
> I appreciate you all!!!

**CHAPTER SIX**

The next morning arrived far too soon for Elizabeth, and she found that she didn’t want to leave. It was the day of departure for Claire and herself, and Claire was more than anxious to be gone from Castle Leoch. The night before, sitting by the fire in her chambers, Elizabeth had almost said something to her, but it died on her tongue with the eager glint in Claire’s eyes. The dark-haired woman was ready to be home, in her own time, and in the arms of her husband, while Elizabeth was more inclined to prolong her stay in the past. 

Still, the morning dawned, and Mrs. Fitz helped both women ready for the journey to Inverness. Elizabeth went about dressing with a heavy weight of dread in the pit of her stomach. It felt as though she was about to experience one of her episodes. Shell shock, the doctors of her time would say. An emotional attack that would surely leave her in a ball on the floor, unable to breath, and shaking with panic. 

Not having suffered an attack since arriving in 1743, Elizabeth briefly wondered why. In the future, after the war had ended, the episodes had been a constant in her daily routine. They were the reason she had chosen to settle in Scotland, instead of returning to her home in England. 

The sound of an automobile backfiring, the suddenness of a door slamming shut, one of her fellow nurses dropping a beaker, the glass shattering on the floor. 

Simple things that pierced the calm or quiet, and brought on memories of bombs and grenades exploding in the distance, the screams of soldiers as limbs were sawed off, the Lieutenant that had been trapped in the horrors and became violent in his sleep, grabbing her in his fear and– 

Well, in the past everything was different. 

She was far enough removed from it all that it seemed pointless to think about it, and she hadn’t experienced an intense moment of panic. Sudden noises that startled her did not send her into a chest constricting spiral. Elizabeth felt that she’d found her footing in a strange, new world. She could see herself enjoying the chores Mrs. Fitz set her, running errands in the village. A sense of purpose could be found collecting food for the kitchens, and caring for people in the surgery. There could be a simplistic peace in playing with the sheep in the fields, and spoiling the horses in the stables. She could even find a man to marry, start a family. 

It was an idyllic dream. 

When the time came that morning to leave, Elizabeth found herself limping slowly alongside Rupert through the corridor between the kitchen and the courtyard. Biting her lips, she leaned against his solid frame. Unable to thank the man, and absolutely dreading saying farewell, she pondered the oddity of being far too nervous, especially around a man she hardly knew. 

Except she did know him. At least a little. They had spoken almost every day since her arrival. She knew he was a widower with no children. He lost his wife a few years prior, and he knew all about how much she had loved growing up on a small farm with her grandmother and parents. She knew Angus was like a brother to Rupert, that they were both loyal to Dougal, yet not so much Colum. She knew he had begun to bathe more regularly since returning to Leoch, as well as cleaning his teeth. 

Elizabeth knew Rupert in much the same way as she knew Murtagh, through hours of conversation and the telling of stories. 

“Rupert, may I confide in you?” She asked, stalling before they reached the exit into the courtyard. Grasping his hand with her own, he paused, a curious look on his face. Rupert glanced down at her small hand grasping his with a frightfully tight grip, and then looked up, gazing into her eyes. “I’m uncertain–I’m not sure how to say it.” 

“What, lass?” asked Rupert, covering their clasped fingers with his other hand. It was almost affectionate, in a way. “Is it somethin’ to do with Mistress Claire? Did someone act inappropriate towards ye?” 

“No.” Elizabeth shook her head, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. “I find that I would much prefer to stay in Scotland, instead of sailing to France. The Highlands are home, and I’ve been gone for so long. I have no family left, yet–I don’t want to leave. I wanted someone to know that I would gladly stay, if only I had any say in the matter.”

Before Rupert could respond, Angus and Murtagh appeared in the courtyard archway. Elizabeth released Rupert’s hand and allowed Murtagh to help her walk the rest of the way to the horse-drawn cart waiting in the center of the hustle and bustle and mud. She quickly wiped the beginnings of her tears from her cheeks before Claire could see. 

It was a losing battle. 

The moment Mrs. Fitz embraced Elizabeth in farewell, the young woman clung to the cook with a fierce grip, sobbing into the padded shoulder and admitting to how deeply she would miss the woman who reminded her so much of her own mother. 

Relief flooded her when Claire and she were called to the MacKenzie. It was the respite, a delay of sorts, that she had been hoping for – anything to postpone the inevitable. Dougal retrieved the women from the courtyard before Elizabeth could decide who to say goodbye to next, and the tension in her shoulders melted down her spine. She hadn’t been able to give the MacKenzie a response regarding his offer for her to stay as the resident healer, though she knew Claire had made a name for herself as a miracle worker between the castle and the village of Cranesmuir. 

Perhaps Colum would demand an answer before Claire and she departed? Provide an opportunity for Elizabeth to stay, so Claire could go onward to Craigh na Duhn? 

What neither woman expected was for Dougal to lock them in a decrepit dungeon-scape of an 18th century surgery. 

The chamber itself required a thorough cleaning, as well as a massive decluttering. The hearth looked as though it hadn’t been lit in years, and the narrow set of windows near the ceiling needed a thorough washing. There was hardly any natural light able to pass through the cloudy film adhered to the surface. It was all rather medieval, considering the era, and Elizabeth wondered why they had been called to meet with Colum in such a dirty place, with far too many steps for the Laird to be bothering with. She had assumed they would be making the trek to his chambers, to the room full of cages and chirping birds. 

“Good day to ye, Mistress Beauchamp.” Colum greeted, limping from the other side of the surgery and into the poor light. “Miss Grey,” he nodded in acknowledgement.

“To you, as well, sire.” Elizabeth responded respectfully, and with an atrocious attempt at a proper curtsy. Stumbling, she changed tact and limped about gathering chairs for all present to sit in, if preferable. “Apologies, my laird. My leg is still at risk of tearing open. May I beg permission to sit?” 

“Of course, lass,” he acquiesced, turning his focus to Claire, who had not responded in kind regarding the Laird’s greeting. Colum wasn’t one to play coy or beat around the bush, though. He shifted from pleasantries to formidable interrogator with complete and utter ease, “Ye have no connections with Clan Beaton, have ye?” 

“The Beatons?” answered Claire, already anxious and counting the seconds until she could make her escape. “No.” 

“The healers of Clan Beaton are famous through the Highlands,” explained Colum. “We had one here, until he caught a fever which carried him off within a week. Davie Beaton was his name, and this was his surgery, he called it.” 

Colum and Elizabeth both paid their respects by crossing themselves, as the good Catholic people, they were. 

Claire could care less, looking about with a slight air of sarcasm “Really? All this, and no one to share it with?” 

“I understand you both have quite some skill as healers yourselves,” Colum continued, and Elizabeth could feel his eyes on her. 

Claire answered vaguely with, “It’s an interest of mine, yes.”

Colum motioned to the vials and such cluttering the tables around the room, while Claire flipped through a rather old ledger. He wasn’t one for letting things go, and Elizabeth was practically holding her breath to hear what he would say next, which turned out to be a simple question, “You know the uses of these potions and things?” 

“Most,” nodded Elizabeth, fiddling with the jar labeled slaters on the table next to where she had sat. 

Claire replied, “Some. This is all really fascinating. Thank you for showing us, but we must be going.” 

Claire was already heading for the door when Colum intercepted her, and Elizabeth simply remained seated, shaking the jar of slaters further and listening to the crawling sounds coming from inside. She didn’t want to open it, yet. Part of her was afraid it might be some sort of spider, or centipedes, which made her skin want to crawl just thinking about them, but a larger part of her was desperately curious to know if slaters meant the same as they did in the modern era. 

“Seeing as we have not had a healer since Davie passed,” said Colum, blocking Claire’s escape. “I would very much like ye both to take up the work.” 

Claire spoke for both of them, and Elizabeth couldn’t help but look away with a smile, biting her tongue hard to keep from saying anything against what Claire wanted. The woman was firm, though, with her reply. “But we’re leaving.” 

“No,” Colum said, effectively authoritative without any force behind it, simple. “Ye’re staying.” 

He turned to leave, and Elizabeth sat in disbelief, dumbfounded that her wish had come true. She was awash with relief, and also tense as Claire readied for a fight. The older woman had staked too much on leaving with the tinker, Mr. Petrie, and she would be damned if someone was going to stop her from returning back to the stones of Craigh na Dun. It reminded Elizabeth that Claire and she were opposites, considering all that they had in common. Claire had more of a fighting spirit, while Elizabeth was more subdued, choosing her battles based on if she would win. Of course, Claire was also English, and Elizabeth knew more about Scotland, the Highlands, and the culture and history. 

“What did Dougal say to you?” demanded Claire. “Did one of his thugs make up lies about us?” 

That caused Colum to pause, almost stumbling on his crooked legs as he turned to face both women, “My brother keeps his own counsel on ye. This is  _ my _ decision.” 

“Then why are we staying?” Claire pushed, refusing to be cowed. 

Colum replied firmly, “Because it is my pleasure that ye do so.” 

“Because you think I’m a spy,” remarked Claire, offering up her own alternative reason for why neither woman would be allowed to leave. “Surely you don’t believe that -”

“I believe that you have secrets, Claire,” said Colum, crossing the distance to argue with Claire up close, face to face, and all that nonsense. “Now, maybe they’re the kind of secrets that every woman has, which pose no threat to me, to Leoch, or to clan MacKenzie. But until I know for sure, you will remain here, as my guest.” He turned and gestured for Elizabeth, who wasn’t one to argue, but she did wither a bit under Claire’s scrutinizing gaze as she limped from her chair to follow Colum up the stone steps. 

“You mean as your prisoner, don’t you?” called Claire, unwilling to let it go. 

Colum stopped, glancing over his shoulder at the tall, formidable frame of an unyielding woman of principle, and replied with a sharp, icy tone, “Only if you try to leave.” 

“And what of Lizzie? Surely she isn’t a suspected spy? Surely you don’t believe she has secrets?” 

“No, she most certainly does have secrets,” nodded Colum, offering Elizabeth a softer, more gentle expression than he had ever given Claire. With a sigh, he continued up the stairs to the door, holding onto Elizabeth’s arm for support, “Fortunately, she’s a Scottish lass with distant ties to Clan MacKenzie, Claire. The clan will take her in and make her family. I have clansmen already inquiring for her hand.”

“Truly?” asked Elizabeth, almost slipping on a step, but Dougal appeared to right both Colum and the shocked young woman’s faltering gait. 

Claire, of course, was livid, “You’ll marry her off against her will?” 

Colum simply ignored her, urging Elizabeth up the last few stairs with him, “Come, Miss Grey. We’ve much to discuss.” 

Dougal barred a screeching Claire from barging through to make an escape, and locked the door behind them, while Colum limped back through the castle with Elizabeth’s arm secured in the crook of his own. Nothing was said, and Elizabeth was guided to her chambers, still in shock, a thousand-thousand questions flitting through her mind, yet she remained silent the entirety of the trip. There was mention that she would be brought forth before the MacKenzie when she was well enough to walk on her own, and that the discussion of marriage into the clan would be explained in more detail. Colum was gentle with her, almost fatherly, kissing her hand and taking his leave. 

In her bedchambers, Elizabeth sat at the window, watching people bustle about the courtyard, wondering who had asked for her hand, and ignoring the miniscule spark of hope that it had been Murtagh. If not Murtagh, then she hoped it had been Rupert. She wasn’t certain she could handle rejecting Angus, and she didn’t find herself quite wanting to suffer whatever horrible act of revenge Mrs. Fitz’s granddaughter, Laoghaire, would bring on her if it was Jamie MacTavish. 


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A decision is made...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a ceremony-thing in the second half of the chapter that may not be correct, but this is fanfiction, and I couldn't find a clear example of how that sort of thing would be done in Elizabeth's situation. So, I improvised.

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

The days passed relatively quickly, considering how much time she was required to spend in her bedchambers resting. Elizabeth regained the use of her injured arm, although her leg would take far more time to heal. Each day she spent time walking on her own around her room, and began venturing into the corridor just outside her door. More often than not, she found a cushioned chair or window ledge to rest, out of breath and slick with sweat. It had been far less trouble being carried around, but Claire remained adamant that Elizabeth needed to exercise the muscles before they atrophied. 

Rupert tended to follow her around, more so than Angus. He clucked about her like a mother hen, and he wasn’t the only one. Murtagh appeared frequently, as well. Both of them tense as if she were a wee bairn learning to walk, afraid she would smack her head on the corner of a table. Every day she managed a little further on her own until the men began bickering over who would sweep her off her feet and carry her the rest of the way to the surgery. Or the grounds to collect herbs and vegetables for Mrs. Fitz and the kitchens. Or near the stables to spoil the lambs, and watch Jamie work with the horses. 

If asked, Elizabeth would say that Jamie McTavish was a nice young man. He had a gentle hand with the horses, and he always had a smile for her. Whenever Murtagh or Rupert carried her closer to watch the colts, Jamie would lead the wee ones over for her to coddle and pet. She would never admit that he was quite fetching, attractive to the eyes. But there was more to him than a handsome face and muscled physique. There was also a shadow that followed him all through the castle, according to Claire. And some of the ladies of the kitchen had whispered to Elizabeth about Laohaire’s jealous temper. 

That aside, Elizabeth had a full plate with Murtagh and Rupert constantly squabbling when they thought she wasn’t paying attention.

“Have ye cared for horses before, Miss?” Jamie asked one afternoon, not bothering to disguise his amused smirk as she sat on the ground to coo at the sweet colt nuzzling her hand. 

Elizabeth had smiled up at him, easy and carefree. “Horses, chickens, pigs, sheep. My grandsires raised many animals. I helped tend to them when I was old enough.” 

Her grandparents had also raised rabbits, she told him. They hopped about freely from the house to the field, following her around when she was just a wee lassie going about her morning chores. She used to get in trouble with her parents quite a lot for sneaking the rabbits into her bed at night. 

All the men shared a laugh over the story. 

Soon the days blurred together. Between helping Mrs. Fitz maintain the garden, and assisting Claire in the surgery, Elizabeth was forced to sacrifice her afternoons in the fields. Her mistress kept her busy once she was fully mobile, no longer weak in the chest after a few hours of toil. She missed the sheep and the horses, the singing breeze playing with her hair and the occasional warmth of sunlight on her cheeks as it peeked out from behind autumn clouds. 

The gathering of clan MacKenzie was only a week away, and more clansmen were arriving by the day. Angus and Rupert were still tasked with following Claire and Elizabeth around, but spent most of the time drinking at the top of the stairs. For Elizabeth, Angus and Rupert were congenial, if not openly pleasant. According to Claire, they were thorns in her arse, but Rupert was practically a treat compared to his companion, who counted the seconds passing as hours. Where the Englishwoman was mocked and scolded, Elizabeth was indulged and coddled. 

Yes, Angus urged the younger woman along, but he wasn’t difficult to tolerate for a day. And Rupert? He was a gentleman, if not a little bawdy with humor and stories. Honestly, both men were. But they were amenable to Elizabeth, because she obeyed her restrictions within reason. Claire was obstinate and antagonistic repeatedly, and neither man appreciated it. Kindness and consideration placated the men far more than Claire’s abrasive nature. 

“You’d do far better luring flies with honey, Claire.” That was all Elizabeth had said on the matter. 

That all aside, Claire was a gifted healer, and intensely compassionate as the women worked together in the surgery. Many clansmen and women arrived during the day complaining of different ailments. Claire tended to the men, while Elizabeth saw the women. Both healers took gentle care with the children. 

Murtagh arrived in the surgery early each morning leading up to the gathering. It was with a warm smile that breathed life into his face that he greeted Elizabeth, and a curt nod to Claire. His presence and offered help fetching herbs and tools never ceased to ruffle Rupert’s feathers. Both men would quickly turn their given tasks into a pissing contest before Claire ordered them out. 

Of course, Claire’s banishment didn’t stop Murtagh from chaperoning Elizabeth on walks in the late afternoons to the stables. Nor did it stop him from escorting her to the village of Crainsmuir as she aided the residents. Usually, she was called for a birth, or to help ease the pain as someone lay dying. A few times a week, she made the rounds to check on expecting mothers.

Elizabeth had a way with children, Murtagh had remarked one evening as he walked her back to the castle. It was due to the fact that she made a point to take the children of her patients out to play together. Or she would take them back to the castle to collect a small basket of extra food for their families. Murtagh had promised to keep it their secret from the MacKenzie, as he helped her keep the wee ones occupied. She did it to allow the mothers to rest for a few hours, before Elizabeth and Murtagh returned with a gaggle of worn out children. 

A blush burned her cheeks each time she caught Murtagh watching her with a strange look on his face, like he was struggling to contain whatever emotion she inspired. 

* * *

The first morning of the MacKenzie Gathering arrived with the warmth of the sun peeking over the horizon. 

Freshly scrubbed and dressed with the help of Mrs. Fitz, Elizabeth soaked in the golden light streaming through the window, and memorized the pastel colors painted across the sky. She breathed out the nerves creeping up her spine, and calmed the fluttering of wings in her stomach before Dougal knocked on her door. That morning was the start of a new life, the first step in cementing her future in the past. She wanted to remember it. 

There was a titter in the air as Dougal escorted her to stand before Colum in the great hall. She thought the conversation would take place in private, not with the entire castle and gathered clansmen as witness. It made her nervous, knowing so many eyes would be on her, listening to her, waiting for her to make a decision. And when she was nervous, she had a tendency to stammer, or do something quite clumsy. 

Elizabeth tripped on her own feet, almost taking Dougal down with her. 

Luckily, they were entering the large hall, and no one in the crowd had turned yet to stare. Dougal merely chuckled, patting her hand resting in the crook of his arm. He murmured a few words of encouragement, but they slipped in one ear and out the other. A ripple of whispers spread through the crowd, everyone present turning to watch and parting to let Dougal and Elizabeth through. 

Murtagh and Rupert stood before Colum as he sat in the laird’s chair. Two apiece, side by side, with space for Elizabeth between them in the center. She curtsied to show respect, keeping her eyes forward. All her focus was on Colum MacKenzie as the anxiety buzzed like a swarm of bees in her ears. 

“Elizabeth Woodville Grey.” Colum acknowledged her before those gathered. His expression was a rictus of authority, and his voice strong, echoing off the stone walls. “You’ve been summoned to hear petitions for your hand in marriage. Will you hear them?” 

“Aye, sire.” Elizabeth answered, dipping into a low curtsy once more. “I consent.” 

Colum gave a brusque nod. “Rupert MacKenzie, declare your intentions.”

It was all rather much, three men vying for her hand. She suspected Murtagh and Rupert, but Angus was a shock to the system. He had even scrubbed himself raw to look acceptable, all pink cheeks and combed hair. Murtagh and Rupert had also gone to great lengths to look presentable, gussied up in their best clothes. It felt like a dream, white and blurred at the edges of some great fantasy. Or the penultimate decision of the heroine of a romance novel. 

Elizabeth half expected Rupert to go down on one knee, but he didn’t, and she was grateful. He merely stepped forward, facing Colum, and projected for the benefit of those gathered. “I, Rupert MacKenzie, petition for the hand of Elizabeth Woodville Grey, m’laird. I offer her my name and my land, a home and hearth, and my honor as her husband to protect her for the rest of my days.” 

“Murtagh Fitzgibbons Fraser.” Colum called, while Rupert stepped back. “Step forward and declare your intentions.” 

“I, Murtagh Fitzgibbons Fraser, petition for the hand of Elizabeth Woodville Grey.” He was nervous, too. Elizabeth could tell by the gruffness in his voice, and the deep red staining his weathered cheeks as she chanced a look. “I’ve no’ much to offer her, but I’ve my name, and my honor. I swear to treat her with the respect she deserves, to cherish and protect her for the rest of my days. This be my promise to her.”

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, tepid in the flush of heat coloring her face. Lips parting in a breathless smile, Elizabeth felt her heart leap into her throat. Murtagh was so honest, words deeply moving in their sincerity that she fought to stay in place. Her body sang with temptation to step closer, take his hand and kiss the tips of his fingers. To see him gaze over at her once he stepped back, to feel what she felt in that moment, was something she had never experienced before in her entire life. 

All that was left was Angus, and he made a mockery of the proceedings. Instead of declaring his intentions eloquently, the man took her hand and kissed it sloppily, slobbering over her knuckles before she wrenched her fingers away. Smacking him repeatedly, Elizabeth admonished him before everyone, almost screeching as she wiped her hand on her skirts. 

“Angus Mhor, that is not how you treat a lady! Back to whence you came, you foul creature!” 

The hall erupted in laughter as Angus scurried out of her reach, yelling over his shoulder, “Yer a right cruel woman! Cruel!” 

Colum had been watching her intently, and when he inquired about her decision, Elizabeth felt the ghost of doubt licking through her chest. It seemed impossible to choose a husband when she didn’t truly know either man. She didn’t know what they would be like as a spouse, or their favorite dishes, or how they liked their tea. She didn’t know if they would be brutal men in the marriage bed, or if they would be gentle and generous. What she did know were bits and pieces of their lives, and stories they had told her. All she could go on were the feelings they inspired. 

So, she stepped forward and acknowledged Colum before turning to face the two men waiting for her verdict. Despite knowing her answer mere moments before, she hesitated. Words escaped her then, like a cold wind howling through a hollow tree. 

Uncertain, Elizabeth looked to Murtagh first. There was something in his eyes. A rare kindness that few men possessed, genuine warmth that radiated out when he cherished someone. She had witnessed him gazing at Jamie the same way, like a father would a son. And when he returned her attention, she saw it gleaming in the depths of his dark brown eyes. 

Adoration. 

Physically, Murtagh was a handsome man, and old enough to be her father. He was less round in the middle, more slender with roping musculature compared to Rupert, but that hardly mattered to her. An attractive face wasn’t everything. Elizabeth had spent a good portion of her young life being overlooked or mocked for her own appearance. Eyes too large, lips to plump for her face, skin too pale with a nose dusted in freckles, and her hair had been a dull straw color for the longest time. She could hardly judge a person based on their appearance, knowing she’d never been breathtakingly beautiful like Claire. But Murtagh looked at her as if she were the most stunning creature he’d ever laid eyes on. 

Then there was Rupert, rotund and loud and full of laughter. He exuded benevolence, was confident in himself, and had a sharp mind. No one expected much of him, or to notice as much as he did, but Elizabeth had caught on relatively quick. People saw how Angus and Rupert behaved and assumed they were dimwitted enforcers for Dougal MacKenzie, but that wasn’t entirely true. 

Rupert MacKenzie was a strong, proud man, same as Murtagh, but he masked gravitas with salacious anecdotes and an easy grin. She liked his lewd jokes, and the ease in which they spoke to each other. He was promising her home and hearth, a farm on which to toil, and children to raise. 

But…

“Well, lass?” Colum asked, startling her from the tempest of her mind. “Have you an answer?” 

Nodding, Elizabeth remembered each man’s oath, and the feelings that swelled in her chest upon looking into their eyes. It was a simple choice. 

“Murtagh Fitzgibbons Fraser.” 


End file.
